


True Colors

by kittenCorrosion



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Depression, F/M, Romance, Social Anxiety, art school au, artist!El, don't be depressed for love okay kids it's not fun, it's kind of about two people with problems finding each other, mental health, photographer!mike
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-14
Updated: 2019-01-31
Packaged: 2019-10-09 23:05:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17414234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittenCorrosion/pseuds/kittenCorrosion
Summary: Mike Wheeler has talent, even if he doesn't always believe it. Enough talent to get him into art school. He's never really been happy, or never really known how to be happy. His friends keep him sane, but he wonders if there's more out there than the black and white he sees through his camera.And then he meets her.~Modern day art school AU about two artists who find they each have what the other needs. Will be a series of chapters of whatever comes to mind. Dedicated to Rhiannon, who in all honesty, created the AU in the first place.





	1. Rainbow Connection

**Author's Note:**

  * For [strangely_ethereal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/strangely_ethereal/gifts).



> hello. it's been some time and i'm back with something new that i probably shouldn't be working on when i have old stuff to finish but i couldn't help myself. i have to give credit to rhi, who thought up the idea of mike being a photographer and el being a painter and the idea just sparked into this. so go follow her, she's strangely_ethereal on instagram and she makes edits and art and is the sweetest human.
> 
> to clarify: this won't really have a set timeline. the chapters might jump around. this first one is their meeting to set the scene, but who knows where it'll go from here. hope you don't mind. hope you like it.

The building was quiet, the brick and ivy-covered walls reflecting the evening sun back, creating a warm, summery haze as bumblebees buzzed among the orange and pink day-lilies. August’s last days had been hot, waves of heat dancing along the sidewalks as Mike trudged across campus toward the art building. He reached up and wiped the sweat off his brow, pulling his floppy bangs from his sticky skin and sighing before tucking his hands back into his tan corduroys, letting the familiar comforting thud of his Fujifilm X-T20 against his chest lull him back into his thoughts.

_God, I’m so screwed. Why did I wait so long to do this assignment? Where am I going to find something that illustrates “simple beauty” that isn’t an inanimate object? Why can’t I just take a picture of some architecture or something?_

He winced, remembering why he’d been trying _not_ to think. His Creative Photography class had been kicking his butt already and it was only the second week of classes. The technical aspects of photography clicked so easily in his mind—it was these stupid assignments where he had to find images that somehow exactly matched whatever stupid ideas his professor had in mind. As if individualism wasn’t a thing.

So what, he was a little boring, maybe but it’s not like he was some preteen who owned a camera phone and thought they were a professional photographer. He had _style_ … maybe.

The shadow of the art building was a welcoming coolness and he let out a sigh as he stepped through the arched doorway and into one of the hallways, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness for a moment. There were three classrooms off of where he was standing, all empty since it was later and the professors had already headed home for the day. A group of students descended the grand staircase and headed down a different hallway, chattering about one of the new professors who was teaching School Arts. Their voices soon faded as they disappeared into the depths of the building and Mike decided to head up to the second level where the studios were, thinking maybe there would be some plants or something he could take a shot of. Artists seemed to love plants for some reason.

There was a giant mural going up the wall of the stairs that looked very geometric, though Mike was sure there was a better term for it he couldn’t remember, and by the time he made it to the top he was feeling a little cross-eyed from all the patterns, quickly turning his back on the painting to face the pathways to the four studios. He looked both ways, unsure of where to head, but the distant sound of music caught his ear and he turned left, walking quickly but silently towards a set of glass-paneled french doors, one of which was ajar, sunlight spilling out.

Soft, orchestral music was coming from inside, and Mike’s curiosity got the better of him as he crossed the space to the doors, carefully peeking inside, brow furrowed.

The room was filled with light, two of the walls and part of the ceiling were covered in glass panels, the natural light of the sun much more desirable for painting than a dreary fluorescent. A jungle of bromeliads, jade plants, philodendrons, fig plants and birds of paradise swept across the floor in front of the windows, a sea of green with bursts and clusters of bright flowers. Easels with small cubbies sitting next to them were set up in neat rows facing the front of the room, which was the opposite side of where Mike and the doors were, a splash of canvases full of different paints and colors and subjects filling his vision.

He almost went blind, squinting his eyes shut to try and get used to the sheer amount of _color_. It felt unnatural and he blinked rapidly a few times before he was able to make out the figure of someone sitting all the way towards the front, right in a beam of the golden evening light.

It was a girl, with curly waves of chocolate brown hair falling over her shoulders, her back to him as she painted, her whole body shifting as her arm moved gracefully, long strokes of a paintbrush. She was wearing overalls, and her phone sat on the cubby next to her easel, the music he’d heard ringing tinnily from it’s small speaker. It was a waltz of some sort, the long tones of the violins matching her strokes as she painted.

Mike hadn’t realized he’d stepped fully into the room, his scuffed Pumas quiet as he walked closer, wanting to see what it was she was painting. Maybe it was bad manners, but he was curious and captivated, watching in awe at the way she moved, flowing like water from a fountain, swirling and spinning, each moment seemingly random but so exact. He was standing not directly behind her but to her left, out of her peripherals but close enough he could finally see her canvas.

She was painting what looked like a circle, sitting on top of another, both golden-brown. The circles were resting on what was a clearly a plate, sitting on top of a counter in kitchen. Mike’s brain remembered what it was called, a “still life”, and he almost gasped at the detail of each individual tile in the countertop, the pattern on the plate, and the way the whole painting seemed to _glow_. He watched as the mysterious circles began to take shape, squares turning into pockets, lines becoming crispy edges, the meaningless blobs turning into—

_Are those… Eggos?_

The waffles were given shadows and detail and Mike felt his mouth almost watering at the thought of a perfectly toasted waffle. The mysterious girl seemed to share the thought because he heard her stomach growl and she let out a sigh.

Without really thinking, Mike lifted his camera, hitting the power button and putting it up to his eye in one familiar move, adjusting the lense and then flicking the settings button until the shot was perfect, the right amount of light and the beauty of her movements suddenly perfect.

He snapped the shot and his shutter clicked loudly, like it always did, sounding like a gunshot in the peaceful room.

 _Shit_.

There was a gasp and he lowered his camera just as the girl whirled around, and their eyes locked.

She was pale, thin eyebrows pinched as she realized she wasn’t alone. Her lips were full and pink, parting slightly in surprise, cheeks flushing, eyes growing wider. And her eyes—they were the most curious shade of brown, light amber, really, with specks of green that seemed to glow as they stared at him, a stray curl falling across her forehead and tickling her button nose, but she was too startled to notice.

 _Holy shit._ Mike gaped at her, caught just as off guard. _She’s literally the prettiest person I’ve ever seen in my life_.

It was a surprising thought because while he knew there pretty people, he’d never really seen anyone that had made him almost lose his breath. In fact, he hadn’t seen anyone like her ever in his life, he was sure. Not that he’d seen much in his life.

Mike Wheeler had been born and raised in his small, miserable town by his small town, miserable parents and was a small town, miserable guy. There hadn’t been much in his life that had ever really made him feel more than… usual. Other than his friends of course, but they were a different story. They’d been there longer than silence, the dull grey that often enshrouded his mind in shades of black and white. What that psychologist he’d seen had called depression, or more officially “Persistent Depressive Disorder”. It was a dull diagnosis, and he’d shrugged of his mother’s worry until she she stopped pushing him to go back and try therapy, instead pretending to take the pills and burying himself further into school and hanging out with the only three people in the world who seemed to get it and wandering the forests of Hawkins with the cheap camera his grandma had bought him for his fifteenth birthday, taking black and white shots of his black and white world.

He was still surprised he’d managed to get into art school with his mediocre shots, in fact he was surprised about most of the good things that happened in his life. He’d always sort of floated along, getting the grades and doing the work to make it through but never truly thought he’d ever be anything. It was because of Will he’d even applied here, and while grateful to escape the suffocating unhappiness at home, he felt like some sort of half dead fish, flopping in shallow water. He didn’t really belong anywhere, let alone here.

And yet somehow he found himself standing ten feet from the most beautiful girl in the whole damn world and she was gazing at him with huge eyes that were full of—

Terror?

Mike realized what he must look like, some sort of creepy stalker, taking her picture without asking and then staring at her like a goddamn asshole.

“Um, hi,” he blurted, letting his camera fall back against his chest. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you I was just—” _Being creepy_. “—trying to find something for my class, um, and I thought I’d find something in here but I didn’t mean to, uh, to be so…” He let out a sharp exhale, cringing, deciding to just be honest, “...creepy.”

She said nothing, looking like a deer caught in headlights, and Mike felt himself flushing, wishing he could somehow reverse and pretend this never happened. Or maybe just disappear altogether. That would be nice.

“I have this assignment for my Creative Photography class, and I’m like totally blanking on what to do and then I saw you painting and I kind of just, um, took a picture, and I’m sorry, that wasn’t cool,” he babbled, unsure of what else to do, “I’ll delete or something, sorry, I just thought your painting was really amazing, like the way you painted those Eggos? Holy shit, that’s really awesome.”

He inhaled, unsure if he should just shut up and leave, but the terror slid from her eyes and she glanced back to her painting and then back at him. Her mouth opened, and the softest voice he’d ever heard asked, “You could tell they’re Eggos?”

Mike swallowed carefully and then nodded. “Yeah, they’re more yellow, and smaller in comparison with the plate.”

She turned back to the canvas, setting the paper palette that had been in her lap on top of the cubby and then scooting the stool she’d been sitting on back a bit, tilting her head. The silence stretched and he wondered once again if he should leave her alone.

“I was afraid… they would just look like normal waffles,” she said in the same quiet voice, so quiet he took a step forward so he could hear her better. “But they’re Eggos.”

“You like Eggos?” he inquired, taking another step.

“Yes. They’re better than anything.”

All at once he was next to her, close enough to smell the turpentine on her brushes and the light floral perfume from her hair as she turned to look at him, pushing her curls back over her shoulder. There was a fleck of yellow paint on her nose and he fought the urge to reach out and wipe it off for her, instead gulping and glancing away. She was wearing a bright pink shirt covered with little yellow flowers and bleached denim overall shorts that were absolutely _covered_ in paints, splatters crimson and gold, violet and cobalt, chartreuse, vermillion, lavender… she was like some sort of living rainbow.

Mike blinked, glancing at her again as she stared at her painting, reaching over to grab a smaller paintbrush that she used to add a darker brown to some of the waffle pockets, creating a deeper shadow. After a moment she seemed satisfied, setting it down. It looked the same but better somehow, and he couldn’t help but marvel at her talent. Will had always used pencils for his creations, and the oil paints seemed to be a whole different world of color.

“How’s that?” Her voice almost surprised him again, quiet but strong. Deliberate but hesitant.

“Even better. You’re, um, really really talented. Wow.”

Her cheeks filled with color, somehow making her glow even brighter, and she shyly ducked her head with a shrug, clearly unsure of how to respond to the compliment.

He quickly stuck his hand out. “Um, I’m Mike by the way. Mike Wheeler. I’m in the photography program, second year.”

“Oh, um, I’m—”

She paused, and Mike couldn’t help but feel puzzled. Did she not know her own name?

“I’m… Jane. Hopper. Oils and Watercolor. Second year.” The last half was said with more confidence but Mike couldn’t contain his curiosity.

“Your name is Jane?” he pressed.

Her face turned pink again, the most perfect shade of pink in the world, and she fidgeted on her stool, avoiding his eyes. “Well, um, my dad calls me Eleven. My name _is_ Jane…”

“But you prefer Eleven? That’s cool. I mean, my name is actually Michael but nobody really calls me that. I get it.”

At that she peeked up at him, the smallest smile twitching her lips, and Mike suddenly felt he could run a thousand mile race or swim across the Pacific or take off right there and be the first man to fly from sheer happiness.

“Yeah, nicknames are the shit,” he continued, a smile curving his own lips. “I could even call you, El, short for Eleven? Nickname of a nickname. Like inception.”

Her smile turned into a soft laugh and she nodded, looking over and realizing he was still holding out his hand for a shake. She reached, her hand so small as it grabbed his, but her grip was firm and he couldn’t help but let the contact linger as they shook, pulling back more slowly than he would have usually. Her eyes were sparkling, all the fear and shyness gone as she smiled up at him.

“Nice to meet you Mike,” she said in the quiet voice that was so damn _mesmerizing_.

It took a second, but Mike felt himself smile back. “Nice to meet you too, El.”

Just then El’s phone vibrated, startling the both of them, and she reached over to pick it up, eyes focused on the screen. Mike pulled his hand back, glancing down and realizing she’d smeared yellow and brown paint all over it during their shake. Somehow a bright yellow streak had smeared across the front of his black and white striped polo, matching the fleck that still freckled her cheek. After a moment she looked back up, brow pinched.

“I have to go. I have a test scheduled at the Teaching Learning Center,” she said apologetically.

“Oh, did you miss one? I hate that, making up tests is the worst,” he joked, hoping to be relatable.

“I take all my tests there. I don’t like classes.”

“Oh, like test anxiety?”

“No… social anxiety,” she said more carefully. “Classes have… people. Too many people. I can’t think.” She looked over her shoulder at the empty studio. “I don’t go to classes, I come here when everyone is gone. My teachers are nice.”

“Oh.”

It took Mike a second to process what she was saying, but it made sense why he’d never seen her once on campus or in classes even though they were both on their second year. He’d read a pamphlet about social anxiety at one point during his visit to the psychologist to get his own diagnosis. How the presence of others made one self-conscious, anxious, could cause panic attacks and racing thoughts. Of course that had been the worst possibility, but considering she’d managed to arrange to not attend classes and take her tests and do her work in private instead, he figured it must be pretty bad.

And yet she was talking to him?

She had started to pack up her things, capping her tubes of paint and swishing her brushes in turpentine and then wiping them on a piece of stained cloth. He realized he was being too quiet.

“Well, I don’t want you to miss your test,” he said quickly, hiding his own disappointment. “But it was nice to meet you. Maybe I’ll see you around?”

El stood up, slinging her tie-dye cloth backpack over her shoulder, but paused at his words, hopping off her stool and then looking up at him. That delightfully soft smile was perking her lips and she nodded agreeably.

“Maybe.” She took a step backward, like she was too shy to know how to say goodbye properly or express any sort of sentiment, instead just smiling and giving an awkward little wave. “Bye, Mike.”

With that she turned, almost dancing her way out of the bright studio, scuffed white converse squeaking against the paint-stained linoleum. All that was left was the smell of turpentine and flowers, bright green leaves and sunshine, and the echo of the most colorful human Mike had ever met in his entire life.

It had been brief but so _dazzling_ , like seeing a rainbow in the spray of the sprinkler, vivid but only a specter. All his life he’d been chasing the end of the rainbow, of some idea of happiness that would chase away the hopeless thoughts and feelings of being worthless, of a “someday” where he would want to get up in the morning and not feel so damn _sad_ . And somehow, for just a heartbeat, he’d felt _something_ , maybe not a cure but an idea of what that… being _normal_ could be.

And for just a second, a flash, a half of heartbeat… Mike felt _hope_.

&&&

“Mr. Wheeler! Would you mind staying behind for a moment?”

Mike had only just slid his laptop into his grey messenger bag when he heard Dr. Jones say his name, glancing up from where he was still standing behind his table. His classmates glanced his way as they left, clearly as curious as to what he had done. As if Mike had any clue.

“Um, sure, yeah,” he agreed as he finished packing his pens and textbook, walking towards the front where the older man was packing up his own teaching supplies. “What’s up?”

“That photo you submitted for the last assignment—'simple beauty’?” Mike flinched, ready to be told he’d failed the assignment. “It was… well, stunning, quite frankly. I rather rashly submitted it on your behalf to Focus In Magazine, the Indiana State photography journal. And they want to publish it in next month’s issue.”

“ _What_?” Mike knew what his teacher was saying but was struggling to believe that the words were true. “I mean, sorry—what?!”

Dr. Jones let out a chuckle. “You took a beautiful shot, Mike, I thought more people should see it. If that’s alright with you?”

Mike felt himself start sweating. It was great news, it was, Focus In was one of the more prestigious journals in the country, and getting his work seen could really help after graduation. But there was one problem.

“Th-The photo of the—” He swallowed. “The artist?”

“Yes! The lighting and the focus are just… so masterful, Mike.” The older man beamed. “And the choice to _finally_ submit something in color? Revolutionary!”

At that Mike flushed, feeling a protest bubble in his throat. Dr. Jones had been riding him since his first semester about his tendency to only shoot photos in black and white. It just _looked_ better, more like how the world _felt_. Maybe it was stupid, but it was his thing and he hated how much the professor would give him shit for it.

But in this case, black and white hadn’t worked. Because the photo was of _her_.

Of El.

And it was a downright _sin_ to let her exist in anything but color. That was how the photo was so beautiful, so simple, a single figure caught in a moment of grace, arm stretched into a single fluid line as the paintbrush moved across the canvas. The painting itself wasn’t visible, just the movement and the color, the natural light catching the goldens of each curl, the splatters of paint on denim, the slightly concentrated pinch of her face, angled from the side so she almost wasn’t visible.

The question was, which was more beautiful, the act of creation caught in the frame, or the person doing the creating?

Mike knew what his answer was, even if most people would only see the former.

He hadn’t actually seen her since he’d accidentally intruded on her and took the winning shot. Had he wanted to go back and find her again? Oh, totally. He’d only argued with himself over it for two weeks. There was no chance of just stumbling upon her somewhere on campus again, he knew if he wanted to see her anytime soon he would have to go the art building again and actively _search_.

But god, why should he? Sure, she was stunning and pretty and talented and made his heart dance like never before… but that didn’t mean she would want to see _him_ again. Why would she? He’d been weird and creepy, there was no real good reason for her to want him to show up while she was just trying to get her work done. And she didn’t like people—they made her nervous. How could he just show up and freak her out again?

So, he’d submitted the picture to keep from failing the assignment and decided to just… move on. He hadn’t mentioned her to anyone, not Dustin or Lucas or even his roommate, _Will_. It wasn’t worth it, wasting time on someone who was only an idea. She was just some girl—he couldn’t project his weird fantasy of happiness on her, even if she did make him feel different somehow.

It wasn’t fair to make her something she wasn’t, to expect something from someone who had their own struggles.

Even if she gave him hope.

“Mike?”

Dr. Jones’ voice brought him back and he blinked at his teacher before realizing he’d been standing there, saying nothing. Not unusual, but kind of rude.

“Right, sorry, um—” He shook his head. “Can you maybe wait until next class?”

The professor’s eyebrows raised and Mike blustered on.

“The, uh, the girl in the photo—she’s, uh, she doesn’t like people. I want to make sure it’s okay with her first. If that’s… okay?” He swallowed again.

At that Dr. Jones nodded agreeably. “Oh, yes, that would be good. Permission is always nice to have. No problem, Mike, let me know on Monday what she says and we’ll go from there. Have a nice weekend.”

With that he grabbed his last bag and left the empty classroom. Mike stared after him, still a bit stunned from the whole exchange. There was no doubt what he would have to do—the exact thing he’d been dreading. The thing he was sure he would end badly.

He had to go find El.

“ _Shit_.”

&&&

It was raining. Pouring, actually. September had been plagued by thunderstorms, and the lightning cracked across the sky as Mike hurried towards the art building. He’d worn his raincoat, but his Pumas were soaked and so were his dark bangs, the hood doing little to keep the water from his eyes. Thunder rumbled above him and he tried to move faster, grimacing as he stepped on worms that had been forced to seek shelter on the sidewalk in the deluge.

Sunday had dawned as bleary and grey as he felt. It was his last chance to find Eleven Hopper before his class the next day. He’d been putting it off, in all honesty, not really wanting to seek rejection, but he knew he needed to and at worst he would just explain about the magazine and the picture he’d taken that he, well, uh, hadn’t deleted and had actually turned in for his homework.

He winced as he neared the doors. There’s no way this would go well.

His soggy sneakers squeaked noisily as he trudged into the building and down the hallway. The plan was to check both the watercolor and oil painting studios, and if she wasn’t in either of those places, well, too bad, he’d just turn down the amazing opportunity and live his life like he had before. Dumb and worthless and lonely.

It wasn’t like he always felt that way… just most of the time. Or when his dad called to check and “see how he was doing”, AKA checking to see if he’d failed out yet and when he’d be coming home to do something much more sensible, like accounting or business management. That always sucked. He’d end the call, usually sitting at his desk, and stare at nothing, wondering why he even tried. Why bother being here, when he was destined to fail?

And then his eyes would wander, to the pictures and drawings and mementos that had been stuck on the wall in front of him, put there by his roommate and his best friend. Most of the photos weren’t Mike’s, they were snapshots taken of him by various friends and family—mostly Will’s older brother Jonathan, the first person who’d really noticed Mike’s skill with a camera. They were pictures of his friends, the four of them dressed up for Halloween, sitting in his basement arguing over a game, in line and in costume for the last Star Wars movie premiere. Good memories. With people he knew he cared about him.

Seeing those pictures, helped remind him why he was even there. How they’d all agreed to go to schools in the same area, so Dustin could learn computer programming, Lucas could head into physics, and Will and Mike were just down the street at the art school. They’d always been close and they still were and sometimes they were the only reason he dragged his carcass out of bed. Because they’d all planned to graduate at the same time and move to a bigger city and get a house and be dumb bachelors and best friends forever.

Of course, Lucas had already thrown a wrench into that particular idea by finding a girlfriend his second month of college. Mike still hadn’t really let himself like her, even though the two had been together for a year. They’d all had a plan—how could Lucas be selfish and ruin everything?

It had caused a schism in the friendship, and Mike hadn’t seen Lucas since summer break back home. Will and Dustin both tried, trying to set up plans and gamenights, reserving rooms in the student centers to study and hang out, but when it came down to it, Lucas was busy with Max and Mike didn’t care to go get his hopes up just to be blown off again.

In other words, the pictures weren’t helping anymore and Mike was finding it harder and harder to come up for air. Maybe that’s why he couldn’t stop thinking about El. Just those twenty minutes had given him more oxygen than he’d felt in months. Like someone cared about what he thought. Like she was someone who just _got_ it.

And yet despite that feeling, he was still filled with dread as he squeaked on the first step. He walked laboriously up the stairs, the hallways much darker today without the splashes of sunshine to warm the marble and aged wood of the old building. The dread only thickened as he heard distant music, orchestral again, but this time recognizable, a tune he’d heard before.

It was Princess Leia’s theme.

Somehow the music made him feel more calm, resigned maybe, but he let his pace stop dragging before coming to a stop in front of the oil painting studio. The song was crescendoing, building and he took a deep breath, closing his eyes for a second before stepping inside. His eyes were drawn to that front easel, illuminated by the pale, watery light from the windows. It wasn’t as bright this time, but she was just as colorful as before, somehow taking his breath away.

Her canvas was different this time, a landscape of the mountains in the back, peaked with snow, and field of wildflowers, sparks of yellow and red and purple in the sea of green. El was wearing a dress that was light blue and covered with a print of yellow sunflowers, her mass of curls frizzy from the humidity, tied up into a ponytail. The dress reached her knees, and below were a pair of bright yellow rain boots, shiny and wet from the deluge outside. She was humming along to the music as her hand flicked the tiny blossoms onto the painting, bits of white to highlight the sun on the petals, each move so exact.

Mike couldn’t help but watch, captivated all over again. The song was ending, soft and sweet, the sound of rain pounding against the glass filling the empty studio instead. He realized he was being creepy again, trying to figure out the best way to alert her to his presence.

Unsure of what else to do, he loudly cleared his throat, letting his footsteps tap more loudly against the linoleum. She jumped, startled, and whirled around to see who it was, her face that mask of terror he’d seen the first time. But this time, when she realized she knew who it was, she relaxed, letting out a little breath and pressing her free hand against her chest, leaving a smear of red against one of the sunflowers.

“Sorry,” he blurted, feeling his face burn in embarrassment. “I was trying to not scare you but I guess I failed.”

She offered a timid smile. “It’s okay. I always scare.”

There was weight in her words, and he wanted to ask what she meant, but he remembered why he was there at all, the question he needed to ask, licking his lips nervously before walking closer. She tilted her head, setting her brush down as he came closer, blinking brightly.

“Um, sorry again. Anyways, uh…” His feet lead him to the stool that was at the easel next to her and he sat down. “This is going to sound weird, and I’m sorry, but—remember how last time I was here, I, um, sort of took your picture?”

“Yes…”

“Well, it was kind of all I had for my assignment so I turned it in just to get credit, I swear,” he babbled, hands held up defensively. “And my teacher sort of submitted it to one the biggest photography magazine in the state and they want to publish it. The picture of you. That I took.”

Saying it out loud made him realize just how fucking psychotic it sounded.

“Jesus, El, I’m sorry, this is so weird, I shouldn’t have taken it in the first place let alone turned it in and—”

“Mike?”

Her voice was quiet but he shut up immediately, face completely burning. She turned to look at him, crossing her ankles, eyes so big and beautiful that he couldn’t help but gulp. To be fair, she didn’t look upset, mostly just confused, blinking at him as she took a breath, taking the air that was leaving his lungs as though she needed it to find the courage to speak.

“It’s okay.” Her eyes crinkled up reassuringly, almost a smile. “Can I see it?”

“See… the picture?” he asked dumbly.

She nodded and then he was fumbling for his bag, sliding his laptop out and opening it up, trying not to drop anything as he balanced on the stool. It took him a second to find the file, double clicking the trackpad and holding his breath as the image of her, so colorful, filled his screen. It was still stunning, and he puffed out the breath he’d been holding before passing the laptop to her, big, nervous butterflies tickling his ribs.

Her hands took the laptop gingerly, setting it into her lap as she tilted back the screen. A soft gasp left her, and Mike couldn’t help but cringe. This was it. He was getting his comeuppance for acting like some sort of stalker and taking a picture of some poor girl who just wanted to be left alone.

“It’s… pretty,” she whispered, eyes fixated on the image. “You can’t tell it’s me.”

Mike almost snorted out loud. How could it be anyone but her? He almost choked at her next words.

“I like it. It’s pretty.” She turned to look at him and this time it wasn’t a hint of a smile, it was a full on grin. “You’re good at taking pictures.”

“I-I—” It took him a second to compose himself. “You don’t—I mean, you’re not creeped out?”

At that she snorted, and the shyness turned into laughter. “Do you want me to be?”

“No! No, oh my god, I have… no idea what to say, I’m sorry,” he admitted, burying his face in his hands with a groan. “Like, I don’t usually take pictures of pretty girls and then get them submitted to big journals and I don’t know what to say so I’m sorry you have to deal with me but the whole point was I wanted to make sure you were okay if it does get published since it’s… a picture of you. And you said you don’t like people.”

He managed to peek out from his hands and she seemed uncertain, biting her lip.

“I… I like people. I just don’t know how to be around them. It’s okay, Mike.” Her hand was suddenly resting on his arm, soft and gentle and probably smearing paint on him. “I understand.”

“Oh.” Suddenly he could breathe again. “That’s… cool. Thanks.”

It was still awkward, or maybe just he was, but she seemed to not mind, pulling her hand back with a smile.

“It’s okay, if you want to publish it. I don’t mind. But thank you for asking.”

That seemed to be the end of the conversation but Mike desperately wanted to keep talking to her. God, how did she make him feel so right? Like all his life he’d been a black and white character in a color world and suddenly just the presence of her filled him every sort of rainbow.

“You like Star Wars? I heard Princess Leia’s theme,” he burst out, a little too loudly. “So great. I love those movies.”

At that she perked up, nodding and facing him again. “Oh, I love them. I watched them so much when I was little. I love movies and books,” she gushed, like she was excited to have someone to talk to who had similar interests. “Who’s your—”

Right then her phone buzzed, a calendar reminder chiming and interrupting her thought process. She grabbed it, frowning and then sighing, glancing up at Mike apologetically.

“I’m sorry. I have to go. I have an appointment,” she said morosely.

“Ah, that pesky TLC again?”

“No, um, my therapist. I can’t miss it,” she grimaced.

“Oh. Oh! Right, yeah, of course, no worries, um, you definitely should go that.” He gave her an encouraging smile, not wanting her to feel bad. “Maybe I should tag along. My mom would love if I started seeing a therapist again.”

She had been cleaning her brushes and picking up her stuff but paused to give him a curious look. “You have a therapist?”

He never really told anyone about his own diagnosis and struggles, but she’d been so open about herself that it only felt fair. “Yeah, uh, I did back in high school for a bit. I have depression—like the kind that doesn’t go away much. But I’m fine, don’t worry.”

At that her brow puckered, clearly worried, but she said nothing and instead went back to packing her backpack, grabbing a thermos that had been sitting on the cubby and then standing up. There was a distinct whiff of a coffee that filled Mike’s nose and he was struck by a thought, blurting it out before he’d really stopped to think.

“Hey, would you want to go grab coffee sometime? There’s that place across the street—” He cut himself off as she realized she looked sad, staring down at the floor and avoiding his eyes.

Oh god, she hated him.

“Um, I—I can’t. There’s too many people,” she said quietly, ducking away from him nervously. “Sorry, Mike.”

 _Of course she doesn’t want to go get coffee, you stupid dumbass,_ he mentally abused himself. _She just said she doesn’t like being around people. Social anxiety, hello? Complete with a therapist. And you just shoved it in her face like an asshole_.

“Oh, shit, right—no, I’m sorry, El, I didn’t think,” he spouted, noticing how she had seemed to shrink, the glow that seemed to surround her dimming. “Of course not, sorry, maybe—”

“I have to go, Mike, sorry.”

The words slapped him in the face and he couldn’t do much but watch as she all but ran from the room, staring at the ground, looking close to tears. All at once the studio was empty and quiet and lifeless, the murky grey light undulating on the floor as the rain pounded the windows, a distant rumble of thunder mocking his idiocy like some sort of cruel laugh.

He’d fucking _blown_ it. Big time. He’d basically told her to fuck off with her problems. He’d done the worst possible thing.

He had made her feel insecure about something that was part of her.

It was all he could think about as he walked back through the rain to his dorm. The look on her face, the _hurt_ , haunted him as he did his homework, ate a granola bar for dinner, showered, and then laid in bed, listening to Will’s quiet breathing above him.

Was there anything he could do to fix it? She’d seemed so excited to talk to him, it couldn’t have been a mistake. And that’s all he wanted, to talk to her more, to feel that warm glow she gave off, to feel every color he’d been missing the past twenty years of his life. God, he had to fix this, there had to be a way to apologize for being _such_ an ignorant dickhead.

It was just past four in the morning when it hit him. An idea, a way to apologize that hopefully would feel sincere. Because he was sorry. So fucking sorry.

Unfortunately it would have to take place during daylight hours, and so after planning out what he would do and how he would do it, Mike rolled over and finally let his exhausted and emotionally tattered brain fall asleep.

&&&

Despite his best efforts to try and execute his plan as soon as possible, it didn’t end up happening until that Thursday. The coffee sloshed in the cups as he made his way up the stairs to the studios, the drink carrier carefully balanced against his chest as he tried to keep from dropping the whole thing and ruining the surprise. He listened for music but heard nothing, frowning as he stuck his head into the oil painting room, finding it empty.

 _Shit_.

There was a chance she was at an appointment or taking at test or just not in the building. It’s not like he knew her schedule, but he’d been depending on blind faith that this would work out and the realization that she might not be anywhere nearby harpooned him right in the chest.

For a second he considered just giving up and leaving. That’s what he probably would have done in the past. If wasn’t meant to work out, why fight it? Giving up was easier. He’d been lucky  to be smart enough to make it through school, but he had definitely considered the possibilities of what his life would be like if he didn’t have his intelligence. He probably wouldn’t have made it past middle school. The vacuum of sadness that sucked the happiness out of his bones would have taken his soul too.

Even now, when he couldn’t figure out an assignment, sometimes he felt like just giving up. Going home and laying down in his childhood bed and letting the last of the things that made him feel alive fade away. To just go to sleep and never wake up. Was it really that bad to want that?

But he couldn’t give up on El. Not when she _deserved_ an apology. Even if he didn’t deserve forgiveness, he had to let her she hadn’t done anything wrong. It had been _his_ fault.

He stared at the empty classroom, the one that seemed so much dimmer without her presence, trying to decide what his next move would be. Maybe he could check the TLC? Hang around outside like an actual stalker until she showed up.

Yeah, no.

Before he could try and think further, there was the sudden sound of music, quiet but there, coming from the watercolor studio further down the hall. Mike almost collapsed in relief, eagerly leaving the room he was in and journeying to a different set of double doors, glancing through the glass window to make sure he wasn’t just imagining her presence.

Instead of easels there were several long rectangular tables in the shape of an even bigger rectangle, chairs lining the outside. In the middle were smaller tables, full of more plants or statues or even a few taxidermied animals. It too had series of tall windows on one side, the golden glow of sunset filling the room.

El was there, her hair in two pigtails as she bent over her block of paper, face concentrated, wearing a firetruck red sweater tucked into a blue-green, tie-dyed skirt that spilled down to the floor, the burst of color so bright it took him a second to get his eyes to adjust. It was a different angle, her face towards him, and the determination he’d felt melted into fear at the sight of her.

God, what was he _doing_? Making it worse? Wasting her time with his stupid idea of an apology?

He let out a breath, ready to turn around and book it, but right then she looked up, as if she could sense him, their eyes meeting. There was no fear this time, just surprise, and Mike realized it was too late to run, that he had to finish what he’d started.

Pushing the door open, he stepped into the studio, feeling awkward, unsure of what to even say.

“Mike…?” She sat up fully, setting her brush down next to her palette, brow furrowed.

“Hey, El. I… I brought you coffee,” he blustered, almost tripping as he walked around the massive table layout, stopping a few feet away from her and setting the drink carrier down. “I wasn’t sure what kind you liked, so I got one of each and then one for me? There’s medium roast, dark, and then their flavored coffee? It was like, maple nut crunch, um, that’s what I got but if you really like it you can have mine too.”

Her surprise turned to stunned amazement, gaze sweeping over the large to go cups he was offering before sweeping up to him, confusion knitting her brow.

“Thank you, but, um… why?” Her cheeks tinted pink. “I thought you didn’t like me.”

 _How could you think that?!_ He almost wanted to yell, but then remembered once again that she wasn’t good with people.

“No, I do, I know last time I was a total asshole. Like I didn’t think about it, but I should have. It’s okay that you wouldn’t want to get and get coffee, like social anxiety makes sense and of course you wouldn’t want to go a coffee shop full of strange people and have to try and decide what you want and talk to the barista…” He shook his head at himself. “You told me you had a problem with that kind of thing and I didn’t listen and I’m sorry. Like, totally sorry.”

She was staring at him, her lips gaping open just slightly, eyes wide. He licked his own lips, feeling stupidly self-conscious and gesturing to the coffee.

“So, um, I thought I’d bring the coffee to you… if that’s okay?”

He reached into his bag, pulling out a little container of sugar and a mini-carton of half-and-half and then, the idea he was most proud of, a small stack of Eggos. Setting them next to the coffees, he let out a sigh, sagging a bit at her silence. Had it been a stupid idea after all?

“Eggos.” It was a single word, but her hand—nails stained with shades of purple and blue—reached out and touched the saran-wrapped waffles. Her eyes met his and she looked like she was about to cry. “You remembered I like them.”

It wasn’t a question, and Mike couldn’t help but flush, nodding. “Yeah, uh, the ones you painted looked so good I went back to my dorm and made some that day. They’re good.”

“Yes,” she agreed.

Her paint-spattered hands wandered further, touching the cups of coffee and the creamer, like she was memorizing how they looked, and then she pulled a cup from the carrier and took the lid off. Mike held his breath, unsure of what she was going to do, but then she did the most normal thing, grabbing the half-and-half and adding a splash of it to the dark liquid, eyes focused on her task.

She didn’t actually _say_ anything, but the quiet acceptance of what he’d done for her felt better than any sort of expression of gratitude. He watched her make the coffee how she liked before putting the lid back on and taking a sip. Her nose scrunched up happily and then she carefully pried an Eggo from the stack, taking a bite. After another moment she nodded, clearly pleased, and looked over at him with a smile.

“Thank you, Mike. I love it.” She was damn near glowing, the small gesture of kindness clearly meaning more to him than he realized. “I’m sorry I ran away. I thought you’d be mad. That I didn’t want to get coffee with you…” The Eggo lowered a bit as she sagged, as though ashamed. “I _did_ want to.” The words were said carefully, her eyes locked with his. After a moment the seriousness faded, replaced with warmth. “But this is better.”

It was like an explosion of fireworks, sparks of every color, vibrant and bright and breathtaking, bursting inside of his chest like his own personal Fourth of July display. He’d done the right thing, had finally figured it out. Maybe it was small, insignificant, but knowing he’d been able to make her feel special, to see the colors that filled his vision when she was near…

“Way better,” he agreed.

Mike smiled back at her, feeling real, for the first time in a long time, knowing something had to be starting right then and there. Whatever it was, he knew he would whatever it took to find that moment again, those fireworks, those _colors_.

That rainbow that had eluded him was no longer a distant shadow, but bright and real.

And only an arm’s length away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i want to kind of clarify: mental health issues still aren't a plot device. i don't really have to time to delve into their issues like i did with el in the light you make, but i hope their struggles seem real. both are things i've struggled with, and i've tried to give my feelings to mike and el in the hopes that they seem more real. 
> 
> idk if that makes sense but it's where i'm trying to come from here. 
> 
> anyways whenever another chapter presents itself in my mind, i'll add on here. i really like these characters in this universe and i know i'll come back to them but i'm trying to keep from giving myself deadlines and just allowing the creativity to flow when it happens. 
> 
> as always, thanks for sticking around through the years (i've been on here for over two years?! what?!) and i hope i can continue this sooner than later lol
> 
> much love,  
> -g


	2. Blackbird

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's not the longest chapter but i wanted to flesh out their backstories and motivations a bit. the next chapter i have kind of started is a huge time jump and event thought i started it before this one. it just felt more right.
> 
> ummm there's some serious stuff here. and in this case, it something i've necessarily dealt with and i'm nervous i'll approach it wrong. again, it's not for... the sake of drama, or sounding good. i want these two to be real, and while i've given them all i can from myself, i want to reach some other issues too, because they're just as important and real.
> 
> i guess i worry i'll talk about it in the wrong way, and if i do and you want to educate me, feel free. drop me a comment or find me on instagram, let me know. i want to do the best i can for the sake of every person who reads anything i write.
> 
> on a less serious note, brenner is a piece of shit in every universe and that's a fact.
> 
> have some angst.

El had been working on a new watercolor when she heard the telltale squeak of the door, the ancient hinges creaking, echoing in the large empty room. Her heart leapt, and she looked up from her block and paints with a smile, already anticipating the tall frame that was standing in the doorway, peeking in with the usual hesitant politeness.

“Mike!” The word danced through the air towards him as she smiled. “Hi!”

The hesitation broke and he grinned back as he stepped into the studio, reaching up to push a lock of dark hair out of his midnight eyes. Her heart fluttered again, and she ducked her head, unable to understand how someone so handsome and interesting would want to spend their evenings with her instead of being in his room or hanging out with his friends.

She’d thought that from the first day, when he first stumbled across her, that he was ridiculously… pretty. Like Van Gogh’s _Starry Starry Night_ , deep shades of night sky in his hair, his pale skin the glow of moonbeam, and the most delicate spattering of velvety freckles—like the milky way, stretching across his long nose and high cheekbones. It was hard to decide if he was more like a Grecian marble statue or a smoothly painted Vermeer.

Either way, he was a goddamn work of art.

“Hey, El,” he greeted her as he made his way to his usual spot next to her, pulling the chair out and collapsing into it. “You’ll never believe what happened today.”

It had become a ritual, almost sacred now. Two or three times every week the past two months, he had shown up, finding her alone as she worked and sitting nearby and just… talking. At first they’d talked about movies and books. Compared opinions and ideas about what killed Padmé, debated on who was the best hobbit, and discussed the fallacies of the Ghostbusters remake. It had been easy, all the things she’d only been able to share anonymously from her behind her computer screen, spilling from her mouth in long sentences that had surprised even herself.

Slowly, it had become more personal, and Mike—upon realizing she didn’t really know what went on around campus and even the city—began just telling her about his day. The crazy professors and their assignments, fellow classmates and their odd behaviors, his funny friends and the things that had happened to them. They maybe weren’t the most important or interesting things, but El found it all fascinating, especially since she didn’t know if or when she’d be able to experience those things for herself.

And the crazier thing was that he seemed to understand that and he _didn’t mind._

He was perhaps the only person in her life who hadn’t treated her like a freak from the start. Even her dad hadn’t really known what to do with her at first, tiptoeing around and making sure she had food and clothes but not really sure how to interact. He’d been gruff and awkward, but kind, and the memory made her smile.

But somehow from the start Mike had just made her feel… comfortable. His awkward bumblings had felt so relatable, and his willingness to admit that he felt that way had been a relief. So many people who had tried to interact with her had tried to make her guess how they felt, had been so confident and self assured and annoyed at her for not knowing how to respond.

But not Mike.

“— _told_ him to stop hitting on her, but he never listens,” Mike rolled his eyes. “Like I know I suck at talking to girls but at least I leave them alone… I guess.”

His gaze had drifted towards her and she noticed that slight reddish tint in his cheeks that appeared when he was nervous. It only made him cuter, really.

And it made it easy to tell what he was thinking.

“I _like_ talking to you,” she said easily. “I’ve been alone a lot. You don’t have to leave me alone.”

“Oh, well, uh… I like talking to you too, El. It’s been nice…”

He paused, like he was waiting for something and she felt a sudden flash of insecurity. His words felt sincere, but she couldn’t read his pause. It was one of the reasons she struggled around people so much. They looked at her, expecting her to know what to say, and how to say it, and when she didn’t say the right thing there was this look in their eyes—

She bit the inside of her cheek, daring to look over at Mike, feeling the anxiety ripple through her chest, but when she glanced at his face, she realized he wasn’t disgusted with her. If anything, he just looked… sad.

“Are you okay?” Her mind raced, trying to think of anything that could have made him feel distraught. She’d been honest. Happy to see him. What could have—

“You said… you’ve been alone a lot. Was that because of… the social anxiety?” his voice cracked and he grimaced a bit, like he felt bad for bringing it up.

Maybe it should have bothered her that he was being nosey but it didn’t really. It felt like a fair question.

“Oh, well… kind of. When I’m here, I’m alone. At home I have my dad. And I know some of the people there too. It’s a small town,” she explained. “That makes it easier. But before my dad—”

She couldn’t help but look away, biting her cheek again at the memories, the flesh already raw from her last therapy session. It was hard to talk about, but Mike had only been honest with her and it felt right. He seemed to want to know—even if it wasn’t _happy_.

With a sigh she closed her eyes, letting the story spill out.

“I didn’t leave my house until I was eleven. Before that, I lived with Mama and… Papa,” she winced, hating the way that word felt on her tongue. “Mama was sick. She had to stay in bed, sometimes I would sleep with her at night, when I was really small, and she would stroke my hair and tell me she loved me…” It was a good memory by all means, but soured. “When she got too sick, Papa didn’t let me go in her room anymore. He said she needed to rest and that I needed to be good or she wouldn’t get better, that I should sleep in his bed with him. So I tried to be good. I stayed inside… I read all the books he bought and watched the movies. I helped when he asked. I was quiet. I did _everything_ he said but—” Her voice cracked. “Mama died anyways.”

She glanced towards Mike. His face was passive, listening, but his eyebrows creased in the middle. He opened his mouth to say something but shut it again, like he wasn’t sure what to say. El wasn’t finished anyways.

“I didn’t know it, but Papa had been making her sick, so she couldn’t keep me safe. And he told me to hide, so the people who came to take Mama wouldn’t see me but… I had to see her again. Before she was gone and—” She shook her head, hating that the tears were in her throat, choking her, remembering how she hadn’t even been able to say goodbye. “They saw me. And Papa tried to lie but it was too late because I wasn’t supposed to be there. I wasn’t supposed to exist—the medical records said I died when I was born—but I did. And they realized what he was doing, how he was trying to make me exactly what he wanted so that when I was older… I wouldn’t realize I could say no.” She swallowed the tears back down, realizing they would ruin her watercolor which she pushed casually away across the table, grateful for the distraction. “It’s called grooming.”

At that Mike tensed, leaning towards her. “Did he…?”

The question hung heavy in the air and she didn’t have to guess what he meant. It was a question she’d been asked before, one that was so tragic and painful. One she was lucky to have escaped.

“No.” She quickly shook her head, like she wanted to shake the very thought from her mind, not noticing how Mike’s shoulders dropped in relief. “No, he didn’t. I was too young. But now I know… he would have. Mama saved me, and the people—child services,” she corrected herself. She knew the right terms, but it was easier to revert back to the ones that had made sense as a child. “They found my birth certificate, and the name on it was my real dad. Jim Hopper.” At the thought of her dad, bewildered as he stared down at the tiny, curly-haired daughter he hadn’t known existed, she couldn’t help but smile. “I’ve lived with him ever since. He loves me—he helped me learn everything I’d missed and when I was doing art therapy and I loved it… he got me a teacher. He’s the best. I’m not alone when I’m home with him.”

“He sounds great,” Mike croaked out, eyes blinking quickly.

Her heart felt suddenly full and she nodded happily. “He told me I should come here. When I won the scholarship. That I needed to start somewhere, start trying to get better. That I deserved to do the best because I was talented. But it’s hard without him, because I’m alone.”

She let out a heavy breath, knowing it was so _much_ … but that she was glad to have been honest with the boy who made her feel so safe. “But now I’m not, since you come and visit me. So, um… thank you.”

She winced a bit, not really intending to have been so sappy. For the most part she just didn’t want him to feel like he was being annoying or something. It felt good to have a friend.

Her first friend.

“Well, um, I’m really glad you don’t mind because it’s been a little—” He paused, glancing at her and licking his bottom lip self-consciously before giving a little nod and deflating, a heavy breath sighing out of him. “My friends I told you about? It’s been kind of… shitty lately. And my dad called me yesterday and Nancy texted me and told me she wants to come and visit and I’ve just been kind of… overwhelmed.”

At that El blinked, confused. Mike had told her about his three friends, growing up together and hanging out, how they had all come to college together. How could it be shitty, having friends who’d known you forever? Ones who liked you no matter what?

“Your friends… are they mad?” Her brow furrowed, unsure if it was the right question.

“No—well, I guess kind of? I don’t know… it’s just—” Another heavy sigh. “We made this deal that when we finished college we would all move in together somewhere and hang out and be cool. Like not have to worry about being alone or stressed out. And then last year Lucas started dating this girl right away and they’re still together and he’s always blowing us off when we make plans and—” His fist clenched. “When we have hung out, she tries so hard to make me like her but I don’t _want_ to like her and Lucas gets mad because I’m not _nice_ but if she just left me alone and let me decide if I wanted to like her, maybe I would—I don’t know. He ruined the plan and it just pisses me off that he would be so selfish.” The ramble was ended with a half-hearted shrug. “I guess, anyways.”

“And your dad—”

At that Mike tensed up, eyes fixating at some distant point as he fidgeted with a string hanging from the bottom of his polo, leg jiggling up and down. “My dad’s kind of an asshole, actually. He thinks I’m wasting my time here, that I should have gone into management or accounting or something ‘practical’. He always wanted some jock son who could score touchdowns and take pretty girls to prom and then follow in his footsteps. Like, even when I was winning at science fairs and getting all As, he didn’t really care because it wasn’t the kind of success he considered important. He’s just waiting for me to fail here so he can try and make me do what he wants.”

His fingers picked more violently at the string, fraying it.

“Like he’s not abusive or some shit, he’s just always disappointed or he doesn’t _care_. And he’s a dick to my mom—and I get she can be kind of annoying sometimes but honestly at least she cares.”

The string was starting to come loose.

“And then Nancy is so _perfect_. Going to NYU for journalism, already getting internships at the New York Times and publishing articles. She’s engaged and pretty and popular and—everything I was supposed to be. And I’m not—” He shook his head suddenly, voice pitching up. “It’s not her fault I couldn’t live up to her but it still _sucks_ and she wants to come here and it’ll just remind me how much of a useless _fuck up_ I am.”

The string ripped off the bottom of his shirt, startling him and making him look down, the daze broken as he realized he’d been lost in his own thoughts. He turned to look at El, who felt frozen, staring at him with large eyes. His cheeks suddenly flushed and instead of the usual cute flush, he looked full on embarrassed.

“God, shit, sorry El, that’s way more than you asked for—”

“You’re not a fuck up,” she blurted, immediately reaching up to cover her mouth, surprised at the intensity and volume of her own voice. “

“I mean, I am. I’m some weird cosmic joke—the son that neither parent really wanted. Nancy is Dad’s golden child and Holly is Mom’s perfect little doll to dress up.” He shook his head again. “I don’t really do anything, I’m just a waste of space. If I wasn’t here, nothing would change.”

El felt her heart ache for him, hearing just how strongly he believed those words. She wished she had more to offer, to help him realize that he really was important. But she also knew that sometimes depression could keep you down. There were times when it found her too, holding her down beneath the dark blanket until she was smothered with sadness, unable to do much but hurt and suffer until it passed.

But that was how he lived. Drowning in a dark sea.

Turning herself to face him fully, she bit her lip for a second before deciding to be honest.

“If you weren’t here, I would still be alone.” She sucked in a breath, dodging his eyes. “So, you _do_ do something. You make me happy… even when I don’t deserve to be.”

At that he looked over at her, dark brows jumping up, disappearing beneath the floppy, silky bangs that covered his forehead.

“Why wouldn’t you deserve to be happy?”

She bit her lip, feeling his midnight stare pierce through her, like he could see the darkness that stained her soul beneath her paint-splattered overalls.

“Why should I? I’m scared of everything. I can’t even sit in a class full of people. Or go to the cafeteria…” The wave of insecurity and anxiety suddenly filled her lungs. “I cook all my food at my apartment. I go grocery shopping at three in the morning and even then I’m nervous. I have to do everything online—or my _dad_ has to do it for me. I’m _pathetic_.”

“ _What_?” There was no hiding the look of disbelief and shock on his face.

Her voice broke, tears burning at her eyes. “I’m _never_ going to stop being afraid of people. And I’m stuck here with seven billion of them… how am I supposed to exist like this, Mike?”

For a second he looked ready to blow up, his eyes flashing, but then he took a deep breath and the outrage was replaced with careful exasperation. He shook his head at her.

“You really don’t see it?”

His confident tone confused her. “See what?”

He almost scoffed, but then shook his head, leaning forward, setting his elbows on his knees, closer than ever before yet somehow comforting. She wasn’t prepared for his words.

“You’re _incredible_ , El…” There was no mocking tone, nothing she could try and doubt. “I mean, you’re scared of _all_ of this, of being in a place with a ton of people and yet… here you are,” he intoned, staring at her with eyes so honest and gentle it made her want to cry. “That’s so _brave_. You shouldn’t be here, like there’s so many things that should have kept you from being here but here you are.” He shook his head. “And you’re here and you’re talking to me even though I’m just some random guy who rudely disturbed you and took your picture and who’s so insignificant—”

His voice choked off and he turned his whole body away towards the table, like he didn’t want her to see his face. But she could hear it in his voice, the silent pain she would see in his eyes. That tension around his eyes and smile some days, that would be gone by the end of their visits. She guessed it was what he had talked about before—the depression. How some days he just seemed drained, like the color had been sucked out of him. She knew she couldn’t make it go away, but when he would appear, thin and pale like a ghost, and sit next to her and pull out his laptop and work beside her, she knew she wanted to try. Try and make him know that whatever darkness filled his head and made it hard, she didn’t _care_ , that she knew there was more to him than that. That it wasn’t something that intimidated her. She liked that he came and talked to her and that he was kind of dorky and awkward. That he was strong and handsome—not just his appearance but in the way he made her feel special.

Or even better… _normal._

“Mike…”

How could she find the words to say all of that? How could she possibly make him understand?

Instead of speaking, she leaned closer to him, reaching out with careful fingers, as though she was getting ready to paint a delicate portrait. Her hand found his, lying slack on the table in front of him. It felt cold, and limp, and when they made contact, he twitched in surprise. But she kept pushing on, ignoring the cloud of fear and the shivers of anxiety in her stomach. Did she know what she was doing? Not really. But she knew it was what she wanted to do.

Her hand tucked itself beneath his, carefully turning it over. She let her fingers dance across his, his fingers even and pale, nails clean and short and taken care off. And then she let hers lace through his, squeezing gently until her hand was curled in his palm, calloused and rough and speckled with red and orange paint, like the first bright spark that lights a fire.

For a second she felt frozen, time slow, hyper aware of her own breathing as she dared to sneak a look at his face. He was staring at their hands upon the table, brow puckered just slightly, before he turned and met her gaze.

Somehow she found words, managing to swallow what usually kept her quiet and unsure.

“You’re brave too, Mike. You stay here when you don’t want to. When you don’t _have_ to.” She swallowed, feeling like an idiot for her simple choice of words. “If I’m brave, you’re brave. Okay?”

There was another infinite second, where El was frozen and could barely breathe. And then his hand closed around hers and he turned to look at her and his eyes were absolutely _painful_ and _beautiful_. Before she could react, he was moving closer, so unbearably close, but she didn’t want to move so she didn’t and then—

His lips pressed to hers, a gentle but deliberate kiss, and suddenly El couldn’t breathe for entirely different reasons.

He pulled back, just as quickly as he’d leaned in, and he looked worried or maybe just unsure. She couldn’t hardly think, but the warmth he’d touched to her lips quickly spread, filling her chest, and then she could feel herself smiling, eyes wide and unsure, and then _he_ was smiling, just as shyly, looking down as if pleased with himself.

El exhaled in a stuttering flutter as her brain tried to process exactly what had happened. There were fireworks filling every part of her, bright flashes of warmth that made her want to wiggle all over. It took a second for the synapses and neurons to fire and travel and then logic broke through dancing emotions and she realized what had just taken place.

He’d kissed her.

 _Mike_ had kissed her.

Mike had kissed _her_.

She’d watched enough movies and read enough books to know what it meant.

He liked her. In a romantic way. And he had kissed her… her first kiss. Mike Wheeler, the beautiful, sad photographer who made her want to dance like no one was watching, who made her feel special with just a smile, who had become her first friend, had just kissed her.

And she had _loved_ it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> now they're getting somewhere. deep talks and heart-to-hearts are the stuff of life, i think. when you finally can be totally open and honest with someone you like? such a beautiful thing.
> 
> on a less serious note, i recently made my instagram public so if you guys want to find me and see my dumb thoughts or send me a message or something, i'm open for business lol. my birthday is coming up in a week and i'm planning on doing a giveaway in a few days to celebrate because... i have extra st merch i don't need, this hiatus and lack of content is a drag, and i like making people happy. so come and hang out if you want, i'll be happy to see you!
> 
> see you soon hopefully  
> -g


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